Stop the Fic, I Want to Get Off!
by Scribbler
Summary: Subreality fic. The characters of Evo speak out about what they do and don't like in their fanfiction, and advise aspiring writers about how not to tick them off. [Ch5 - Villainous Villainy.]
1. A Very Peculiar Beginning

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Chapter One: A Very Peculiar Beginning  
  
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The Authoress would first of all like to point out that she is not a nutball.   
  
What, you were expecting something deep and meaningful to begin with? A simple statement is often the way to go – especially when said simple statement is self-protective. She is not crazy. A little off kilter sometimes, yes, but she has not yet crossed the line into fully-fledged psychosis.   
  
She would also like to point out that 'sane' is a misnomer. It doesn't, in point of fact, automatically mean 'not insane'. There are many different layers and levels of insanity, some of which people can reach several times a day without even realising it. The Authoress is vaguely aware of which echelon she is currently inhabiting, and that is enough for her to say with some certainty that she is not nutty.   
  
It is an odd sensation, she realises, going back and rereading what she's written. Readers are most likely wondering what she is babbling on about, and she appreciates that she is not always the easiest person to understand. Still, as she sits huddled over her computer terminal, perennially aware of the librarian's beady eye fixed upon her back, she can't help but prattle a little. After all, she reasons, this is a stream of consciousness deal, and the brain is rarely the most organised of places. Dragons have it down to a fine art, shelving information and storing away thoughts, memories and knowledge with all the efficiency of the aforementioned beady librarian. The Authoress knows this because she has spoken with several Dragons. She is actually on first name terms with one. However, humans are much more chaotic; and, despite everything, The Authoress is still quite human.   
  
Well, most of the time, anyway. She *is* The Authoress, after all. The title should really speak for itself. With a few keystrokes she can be anything she wants – including a Dragon. But for now, she is content to remain human. It makes things a little easier to understand, she hopes.   
  
So, computer room. And questions. What, she can almost physically hear readers asking, is this nonsense she is spouting? And how does this have *anything* at all to do with X-Men: Evo?   
  
The answer is both simple and complex. This, in spite of appearances, is indeed a piece of Evo fanfiction. It is a fanfiction about fanfiction – hence The Authoress has broken her near-cardinal rule never to insert herself into a narrative. She's had brushes with Mary-Sues before, and, with all the inherent power that comes from being The Authoress, she is fully aware of how easy it is to put on the Mary-Sue mask and make an utter fool of herself. She has just finished trawling through a certain fanfiction archive's updates, and so has had very recent firsthand contact with such creatures. It is an ugly experience. Not that she needed the archive to tell her that. She has several Internal Characters who border on, and fall into the Mary-Sue, Gary-Lou trap. Slightly fewer in the latter, which is a whole other depression she won't go into right now.   
  
The Authoress has noticed that she is not making much sense. Which is not unusual, but needs rectifying here, she feels.   
  
Internal Characters have several names, the most common being shorthand 'OC'. They are usually residents of fanart and fanfiction, owing to the fact that they typically belong to one person, and have been created by said person for their own means. They can be for fan-related purposes, or even characters in original works that have not yet been made public. Their antithesis, External Characters, are the impetus behind fanfiction. They are the published, the televised, the silver-screen stars. They are the property of somebody else, and fans simply borrow and channel them when the desire to do so strikes. Disclaimers are the standard way of protection against the copyright laws that enshroud these External Characters, and The Authoress now realises that she does not have one at the top of this piece.   
  
No matter. No External Characters have made an appearance yet, so she is safe for the moment, and can get on with her justifications for blathering on like this.   
  
As she has already said, this is a fanfiction about fanfiction. It is meant to be an exploration into the world of aficionado that The Author routinely inhabits. It is meant to be interesting and question-provoking, but The Authoress has a sneaking suspicion that this is turning into one great big ego trip. So she is going to cut this first instalment short.   
  
Or at least, she was until the phone started ringing.   
  
She doesn't need to pick it up. Mental phone-lines work differently to corporeal, and so after the first shriek she listens to the voice that follows.   
  
"You're confusing them," says Jean. Jean likes to call The Authoress out of the blue like this. She has a mischievous streak that people rarely acknowledge, but which The Authoress often gets treated to. She doesn't really know why Jean does this to her in particular. Perhaps it is because The Authoress is in the middle of writing a scene from her POV in another, unrelated fic. External Characters like to call when they know they're being written about, if only to give advice and counsel on where writers are going wrong with their characterisation. Sometimes they're not heeded, which ticks them off a bit.   
  
Jean knows The Authoress listens, though. Which maybe why she doesn't bother with pleasantries when she calls.   
  
"Fine," says The Authroess. The security guard is coming by, calling for time, and she sighs at Jean. "Should I wrap up?"   
  
"You can't mix them up any more by stopping. Let them absorb, then come back and see if they have anything to say before you barrel in with guns blazing."   
  
Jean's advice is generally good. That's one of the reasons many writers don't like scribing about her – she's too level-headed to be interesting.   
  
"I heard that." Jean puts the phone down. External Characters hardly ever say goodbye.   
  
The Authoress sighs again, and stretches her back, cracking a few vertebrae back into place. She'll take Jean's advice, just like she always does. Just like Jean knew she would.   
  
Sometimes, when time runs out but inspiration doesn't, being The Authoress sucks harder than an industrial vacuum. 


	2. Rationale

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Chapter Two: Rationale  
  
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External Characters. It's not really their fault they get so screwed over.  
  
Yes, we're back to cryptic, bewildering comments. It's more or less a requirement of surreal ficcery. And this fiction is nothing if not surreal. In the extreme.   
  
"Which is a good thing," Jean says directly into The Authoress' brain. "Follow the rules for too long and you'll either wind up a basket case or a delinquent. Everybody needs some sky-time once in a while." She says this with such an air of certainty that it incites The Authoress to a bout of unladylike snorting; which, in turn, make her very glad that she is sat alone in front of her laptop.  
  
Well, maybe not quite alone. Jean is once again on the other end of a mental-phone line – nothing to do with her telepathy, you understand. Characters and writers already have telepathic bonds, albeit of a different kind. Characters of all kinds need attention to exist. Without interest – both of fans and of creators – they simply cease to be, so their fundamental survival depends on being able to contact and steer certain people around a bit, no matter where they are.   
  
There are differing levels of success to this. Think back to an External Character you really, really liked as a child, but who somehow never endured into the present-day. The most likely explanation for this is that they were starved of attention – literally. The Authoress once ran across an obscure External Character she used to know from her salad days. Not a pretty sight – he was approaching full out skeletal – which is why she encourages people to lavish underused characters with attention whenever they can.   
  
Aside from Jean, the other person in the room is Terrestra, who is sat in the corner muttering. She does a lot of that, which is why she generally sits in the corner instead of next to anyone. See, she also has a habit of spontaneous violence; so being close to her is tantamount to an extreme sport like crocodile wrestling or bungee jumping sans the cord.   
  
Terrestra is an Internal Character whom The Authoress created quite some time ago, and who makes appearances every now and then just to poke and make a nuisance of herself. She is one of The Authoress' more abrasive Internal Characters, and her current cavil involves being described as 'a ninja puppy-girl' by an Art Viewer. Her attitude rather matches The Authoress', though for entirely different reasons, and so The Authoress has no problem channelling her for a while, perpetual pest though she is.  
  
Jean heaves a long sigh. "Are you ever going to get on with this? Or is the intent of this fic to bore your readers into submission?"  
  
"I'm getting to it," The Authoress replies, a trifle snippily. An unwarranted parking ticket has made her more crotchety than usual, and she hunches deep into her uncomfortable white plastic swivel chair, thinking for the umpteenth time that she really should invest in something more comfy. Or at least something that makes allowances for her tail.  
  
No, she's still human, as was mentioned before. However, channelling Internal Characters means that some of their traits tend to rub off on you – physical as well as psychological. The Authoress has literally hundreds of Internal Characters, and she instinctively channels them according to what state of mind she's in when she sits down to write. For example, if she's feeling obtuse, then she channels her Internal Dunce, and suchlike. Terrestra dropped in to see feedback to her art, and stuck around because she matched The Authoress' mood.   
  
The Authoress knows that she doesn't really have a tail, nor is ever likely to grow one. However, she feels like she has a tail. She can literally sense it lashing back and forth behind her, still indignant on her behalf, though if she looked around she knows she would see nothing there.  
  
If she looked with her eyes, that is.   
  
Too many people rely solely on their physical senses – herself included. That's why she likes fiction so much. There, she can be anything she wants to be. Since, short of grafting a mirror to the end of her nose, she can't see herself going about her life all the time, she can only visualise it in her mind. And sometimes what she visualises is very different, and not at all like what the rest of the world sees. It's a perk of being a writer, and one that she sorely hopes other writers enjoy, too.   
  
Deviation over, The Authoress cracks a few vertebrae back into place and sighs. She is wholly aware that this fanfiction is, so far, a very lacklustre experience. She is also aware that her disclaimer is still absent, even with Jean's attendance, and so states quickly that all characters and places not otherwise declared her own belong to Marvel, Kids WB, and the multiverse, respectively. That done, she flicks a pointed ear, and returns to the phone-call at hand.  
  
"So glad you remembered me," Jean sarcasms.  
  
"How come you reserve the mockery for me? I actually pay you attention that isn't bashing. Surely that merits some sort of respect?"  
  
"Because you're a sucker and you need me," Jean says simply.  
  
Stupid Jean. She's right, of course. That scene from her POV is still unfinished, and if she were to abandon The Authoress at this point in proceedings then The Authoress would be thoroughly bungled. She has no extrasensory perception of her own, save for abovementioned linkage with characters, and so the helping hand of a bona fide telepath is a valuable asset. Jean knows this. It's her greatest weapon in arguments with writers. Possibly one of the reasons people like ignoring her, too. There is such a thing as being *too* helpful.  
  
"It's called being overbearing," Terrestra growls from her spot. She has fallen to sharpening one of her blades on a whetstone formerly of a pouch at her waist, and the feel of sparks in fur is a rather distracting one for The Authoress.   
  
Jean humphs. External Characters don't really like phone conversations with Internal Characters involved, primarily because they can't bully them like they can writers and artists. Internal Characters, once they've been around long enough to gain a modicum of independence, can act unaided by their creators. And, since when in that place they know their creator is paying them a good deal of attention, and likely to do so for the foreseeable future, they feel able to challenge External Characters, even though the latter are far more powerful.  
  
Terrestra is one such character, but for once The Authoress is glad of her terminal lack of tact. Even outside of reality The Authoress is far too polite. Terrestra gives voice to some of her creator's innermost grievances without thought to delicacy, as well as expressing some of her own to boot.   
  
"But I agree with Red on one point, though," Terrestra breaks in, running a finger along the blade's edge as she talks. "You really should get started properly on this fanfiction doohickey."  
  
Terrestra is not a chief participant in The Authoress' fanfiction. She has appeared in a total of one, besides this conversation, and even then her performance was lost to online consequences of the Great American Blackout. As such, she doesn't really understand the intricacies of fanficcery. She knows what it is, she knows The Authoress is called The Authoress because she writes the stuff, and she's spoken with enough External Characters to learn a few bits and bobs about the common downfalls of such a hobby. Other than that, however, she's completely in the dark on the subject. Which is both a good and a bad thing, since a different perspective is always beneficial when dealing with something like fanfiction.  
  
The Authoress heaves a big sigh and brushes aside the ghost pain of a cut finger. Evidently, the blade was very sharp. "I know, I know. There's no need to gang up on me. But how to I start? Properly, I mean. I'm already two chapters in, and I'm no further to explaining what I'm trying to do than when I started. Plus, I'm sensing a distinct slide into ego-trip territory, here."  
  
"Two chapters with you as the protagonist and you're only just figuring this out?" Terrestra is scornful, and Jean's stifled laughter isn't helping things.   
  
It's difficult to keep Jean down for too long – yet another reason why writers don't like writing her. There's not enough angst to her – some, but not as much as other, more popular External Characters. That's why when she *is* included, she's predominantly relegated to the role of background noise, or else shoved into the part of Love Interest alongside thousands of Mary-Sues. It's unpleasant company to keep, she has confided to The Authoress in the past, and does nothing to help her image as Miss Perfect.  
  
Terrestra offers no further comment, but swaps to the other side of her double Naginata, a lethal weapon that has little to do with the film franchise of the same name. It is in fact a long pole, tipped on either side by large, diamond-shaped blades. It was the result of The Authoress watching too much anime whilst first sketching Terrestra, but suffers from 'prettification' via two flowing, colourful ribbons attached just below both blades. Terrestra likes to complain about the ribbons; but then again, Terrestra likes to complain about a lot of things, so the ribbons stay.   
  
"You could always start at the most logical place," Jean suggests kindly, taking pity on The Authoress and her plight.   
  
"And that would be…?"  
  
"The beginning."  
  
"And prize for Most Obvious Statement of the Year goes to…"   
  
The Authoress exhales noisily. She knows what Jean actually meant, but it really does sail close to the wind of Egoe-Trippius. She already has reservations about this entire venture, and is half-convinced that she should just disregard the whole thing off as a by-product of temporary insanity. They say hairspray fumes do funny things to a person, and she *did* walk into a cloud of the stuff in her mother's room earlier…  
  
"You know, you're really starting to piss me off with all this 'self-indulgence' crap," Terrestra says bluntly, whetstone once again creating a spray of sparks that make her tail flinch out of range. "If you want to write the damn fiction, then write it. Don't answer to your own self-imposed boundaries. If this is an ego-trip, then it's an ego-trip. La-di-frikkin'-da. You have successfully deciphered a feature of your own writing. Now just get on with the rest of it before I try out this thing between your ribs."  
  
The threat is an idle one. Terrestra needs The Authoress to survive. Since she's an Internal Character, if The Authoress ceases to exist, so does she. It's that simple.   
  
Not that injury from any sort of character would necessarily *harm* The Authoress. Not in any physical sense, anyway. Characters are, by definition, fictional. They don't exist in the mundane realm of reality, which all of them have to acknowledge at some point (because fictional characters with those kinds of delusions of grandeur seldom last long), and so nothing they inflict could cause more than a ghost pain to The Authoress, like the previously mentioned tail and ears.   
  
Psychological scarring, however – well, that's an entirely different kettle of fish. After all, whatever happens to her here happens to her essence – her inner personality. A body is one thing, but her mind is quite another, and she has no desire to risk it by testing her theories.  
  
"All right, then. The beginning it is. But you still haven't helped me figure out some kind of validation for what the hell this egotistical claptrap is *for*, or what it's supposed to *achieve*." The Authoress realises she is being whiny, and tries to curb it. She marginally succeeds.   
  
"Translation; why are you writing what you're writing, and what exactly *are* you writing?" Terrestra interprets, for the benefit of any reader not quite so much in love with their thesaurus as The Authoress.  
  
Jean muses on this for a moment. Were it not for the sense pf presence still in The Authoress' brain, she might have though she'd hung up again.  
  
The Authoress is prone to simply sitting down at a computer and churning something out without any prior inclination or idea, but this time is different. This is not some pithy one-shot, vignette, or interfic addition that can survive within three hastily-written pages. This is turning out to be a lot longer and more involved than The Authoress anticipated, and she knows instinctively that it needs a purpose. External Characters hardly ever bother with purposeless fiction. It generally meanders around in circles for a while and then dies curled up on itself, or written into a corner. Plot is more than a four-letter word. And for something surreal, a purpose is even more important than usual.   
  
"You could say that you're deconstructing the writing process to help you improve your technique," Jean says thoughtfully. "Sort of a self-improvement deal."  
  
The Authoress considers this. It sounds good, and she supposes it's true, in part. After all, you can't write something like this without examining a few facets of writing – your own included. But still…  
  
"Meta-fiction." Terrestra's input makes both The Authoress and Jean start, and the former looks over to the Internal Character with interest. As has already been stated, Terrestra is not expert on fanfiction, nor has she ever exhibited much interest in it. This minor excursion into literature is proving quite the surreal experience for her, too, she'd like it to be known, and she's not sure if she'd ever like to become an actual part of one of The Authoress' stories if it's anything like this.   
  
"Huh?" The Authoress says stupidly. Her Inner Dunce is surfacing, and she hastily pushes him back down again.  
  
"Meta-fiction," Terrestra says again, this time pointing her Naginata at The Authoress for extra emphasis. "You're examining your writing, the writing process, and Evo fiction in general, correct?"  
  
"Well, yeah…"  
  
"Which involves acknowledging the fact that you're both writing and starring in a piece of *fiction*. Hence, meta-fiction. You can make your excuse for writing this stuff by passing it off as meta-fiction. Problem solved."  
  
Sometimes Internal Characters can be just as frustrating as External; but sometimes cultivating them can reap unexpectedly noteworthy results.   
  
The Authoress can feel a smile worming its way across her face. She doesn't bother to voice her approval, since both characters likely already know about it. Terrestra shrugs it off, but Jean mirrors the emotion.  
  
"So, you're coming to visit, then?"  
  
"I think I am. You *did* say to start at the beginning, after all."  
  
And so begins an extremely bizarre journey, during which metaphysical sick-bags will be provided, if not disposed of after usage. Ugh. 


	3. Subreality and the Illusory Network

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Chapter Three: Subreality and the Illusory Network  
  
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Subreality is a strange place. It's very easy to get lost here, no matter how much fiction you write or art you produce – both fan and otherwise. If you've ever been in a hedge-maze, then you have a fraction of an idea of what Subreality is like. It's akin to the multiverse's biggest ever hedge maze, and then some - except that buildings, country borders, highways and open plains can replace hedges at random intervals.   
  
Some people think that Subreality is where External Characters hang out and live when they're not working. This isn't strictly true. They do hang out here, but they're too transient to stay after hours. It'd be like a truck-driver's holiday.  
  
To boil things down to their simplest state, Subreality is a place of locations. Think of a place, any place at all, real or imaginary, and Subreality will have it. Past, present, even future settings – places that haven't been discovered yet, or were lost millennia ago. You want to visit Atlantis? You can get tickets there from your local Subreality airport. Pompeii takes your fancy? No problem. The Xavier Institute? Nothing could be simpler. Or maybe you like to pop along to Middle-Earth for a stroll around Hobbiton. In Subreality, it can be done.  
  
If you've ever watched a TV show, then the backdrop you see is a location in Subreality. You may argue that, for live-action pieces at least, the backdrop is a studio lot somewhere; but you'd be wrong, because from the moment those actors bring those characters to life on film, then that backdrop has become a part of Subreality. It has infiltrated its audience's perception, and therefore transcended from studio back lot to something more; and even when the show is cancelled or the movie finished, and all sets taken down, the *setting* remains, because it's now a part of Subreality, and therefore can never be lost so long as evidence of it exists in the minds of viewers and fans.   
  
So, Subreality is where one goes to get a feel for where External Characters operate. It's where canon is created, and so is drenched with useful facts and particulars than could benefit a writer or artist.   
  
Take the Bayville Mall, for instance. It's still under construction after that first incident with Scarlet Witch, as is evidenced by scaffolding, strut-supports, and big yellow 'keep clear' tape all over the place. Away from this, each store is individual, whether it's been shown on the show or not – this *is* a mall, after all, and since when have you known a mall not to fill every available space with nice, rent-paying shop owners? If you go into a Starbucks, then you can smell the coffee and hear the whirring of machinery. Enter the record store and you will no-doubt find the latest Festering Boils CD playing over the loudspeakers. Set foot inside a hair salon, and you'll almost certainly choke on the scent of hairspray and colourants.   
  
Disregarding artists for the moment – because this is a fiction about fiction, not about art, after all - Subreality is where writers go to set their work. Fiction can't take place in empty space – neato as The Matrix's moving gun-aisles are. And settings need to be specified – not just by name, but also by atmosphere.   
  
If you've ever read a fiction where characters function completely independent of their surroundings, then that writer has not been to Subreality; because in Subreality, just like in real life, your surroundings play a part in what you do and say, and how you act and feel. Go sit in a graveyard at night and you won't exactly be singing cheerful ditties about butterflies and how life is so grand you could just burst into song. Likewise, people on a roller coaster can hardly have a civilised chat whilst doing loop-de-loops and clinging onto the handrail for dear life.  
  
Smells, sounds, things that get in the way as you walk, the sticky bit of chewing gum that just won't scrape off the base of our shoe – all of it can be found in Subreality, even if the actual characters can't, most of the time.   
  
It's all a question of learning about your tools before you set about using them. You may have seen the Boarding House hundreds of times on TV, but when starting off a fiction located within its living room, you have to think about what it's really *like* to be there. A TV screen can only show you so much. It can't tell you about the aroma of Todd's unwashed sock in the corner, or the half-mouldy cheese sandwich Fred dropped beneath the couch three months ago. It won't remind you that the window is broken, and that a permanent cold breeze makes bare floorboards bloody freezing to walk on first thing in the morning. That's what Subreality is for – to get inside the world of External Characters.  
  
It's also where The Authoress has decided to start her trip. Specifically, on the doorstep of Bayville High School. She's not intending to stay long, but this seems a pretty neutral place to begin. Besides which, there is a depot just down the street.  
  
The Authoress spends quite a bit of time in Subreality when she daydreams. The phrase 'zoning out' is almost coined for her personal usage, and more times than she cares to count, annoyed lecturers and peers whom she was supposed to be paying attention to have woken her from musings via a hand-clap or slap to the desk. Consequently, she knows her way around this particular area quite well – a good thing, since it's pretty much empty right now. You can't ask for directions when there's nobody to ask.  
  
All places in Subreality have a depot of some description. Even fantasy settings like Earth-Realm have shacks where means of transport are stored. These aren't for getting around here – those depots are clearly flagged. No, these are where a writer can get on the Illusory Network.   
  
Some writers think that Subreality is the be all and end all of fiction. It's not. Beyond Subreality there is a place that doesn't have a name, per se, but which houses all the things Subreality can't. It's where External Characters go when they're not working, to meet new writers and help old ones with whom they've lost contact for whatever reason. It's where facets of writing take physical form. The Multiverse works at the check in centre there, and only writers who have deciphered their brainteaser can get past it.  
  
The Authoress is aware that she is talking what can be considered nonsense, so she makes an attempt to explain. Subreality is a place of locations, as has already been stated. It can be reached whenever a person watches a TV show, picks up a book, or just daydreams him or herself there. However, the realm beyond it is where genuine authors go – people who truly enjoy their work. It's one thing to imagine a place, and quite another to write about what goes on there.  
  
There are several ways of getting to the realm beyond (for now, she will refer to it as the Ambit, even though that's not its exact name). The most commonly used way is the Illusory Network – a system of metaphysical buses, trains, aeroplanes etc.   
  
The Authoress used to ride the train, but the recent explosion of Harry Potter fanfic has metamorphosed things from diesel to steam, and stations have renamed and redesigned themselves to reflect the number of HP External Characters who travel them. The Authoress has nothing against Harry Potter, but she feels slightly uncomfortable riding alongside his fans, since those who make the effort to get on the train tend to be a bit fanatical, and don't take kindly to someone like herself, who couldn't tell the difference between a Nimbus 2000 and Every Flavour Beans ™.   
  
Nowadays, The Authoress contents herself with riding the bus. Aeroplanes are pretty much the best place to meet immortal and divine characters like gods and other deities. Mortals stick to more land-bound means of transportation, and since almost all characters that The Authoress likes to write about are mortal, she also sticks to grounded methods. It's benefited her in the past – although trying to get hold of Warren Worthington III involved a trip on a 'plane. He's not a deity, but he likes hanging around in the clouds because of his wings, and often stops off on one of the Illusory Network aircraft when his muscles tire.   
  
The Bayville depot looks like an everyday, unexciting building from the outside. People go in and out, usually alone, but sometimes in ones and twos. From time to time groups of writers involved with round robins and interficcery go in together – though they don't always all make it onto the Network once inside. The Authoress has been in some of those groups, but today she is unaccompanied.   
  
She enters the depot, checking her disbelief on a suspension peg and waving hello to Reality at the door. It works as a janitor in each branch, though she doesn't talk to it much while here, and it waves back a little forlornly, pushing a broom that could use a few more bristles.   
  
Striding forward, The Authoress travels the long, seemingly endless corridor that makes up the majority of the depot, until she reaches the turnoff for buses. It's right next door to the airport, and through the adjoining entrance she can see a huge open space that couldn't possibly fit into such a small building in the real world. That's why Reality got demoted to janitor instead of gatekeeper – it kept trying to force people's perceptions back to its own point of view, which, in a place like the depot, is nigh on impossible.  
  
The Authoress trips along to the bus station, and sits down to wait. Around her are writers, none of which she's ever met before, and she twiddles her thumbs idly. Several have thoughtful looks on their faces, and a handful have pieces of paper in front of them that they are scrutinising. The Authoress knows what they're up to, and so doesn't bother them or break their concentration.   
  
You see, not everyone who comes to the depot can get onto the Illusory Network. When they first arrive, new writers are each given a personalised brainteaser. Only once they've cracked it can they board the Network and travel to the Ambit. A lot of writers never solve their brainteaser, or else half-solve it and wing the rest. Even professional writers don't always work it out.  
  
The brainteaser is an author's own writing style.  
  
The Authoress sees a lot of new writers with their brainteasers at the depot. Sometimes they board with her, but, unfortunately, more simply toss their brainteasers into the trash and stay in Subreality instead of progressing on to the Ambit. This saddens The Authoress, but she is of the firm opinion that there are some things people have to figure out for themselves in life. This is one of them.  
  
The brainteaser isn't a one-time thing. It can return whenever a writer loses confidence in his or her own work, or is set upon by peers. Sometimes lack of practise can incite a writer's brainteaser to return. The Authoress didn't always write on a regular basis, as she does now, and occasionally she would find that her writing skills had gotten rusty through want of use. Then she would have to puzzle out her style again, and would sit at the bus station working at it for maybe weeks on end.  
  
These days she keeps on top of things. She writes every day – whether for leisure or because her studies require it. She also reads as a hobby, and constantly seeks to improve herself by looking at other people's work. The Illusory Network can be unpredictable and capricious, and it's always useful to seek self-improvement when riding it so that it doesn't toss you off for stagnating.  
  
Passengers who have gained enough skill to solve their brainteasers are the sorts of writers External Characters want to work with. It's not that they *can't* work with less experienced writers, it's that they just prefer knowing when they commit themselves to a project that the author in question is not going to play favourites to the nth degree and will treat them all fairly. Writers who indulge in character bashing have likely never even heard of the Illusory Network, and External Characters hardly ever seek them out to 'phone ad hoc in the real world. Would you actively go and spend time with someone who insults you and/or your best friend for no other reason than because he or she wanted to? Didn't think so.  
  
The Authoress peruses her fingernails as she waits. With no Internal Characters around, she is completely human again – albeit a fictional form of herself – and in dire need of some nail-clippers, now that she thinks about it. Of course, had she wanted she could have called on one of her Internal Characters to use as an avatar, but since she is pretty sure any readers still reading are already confused enough, she has elected to remain human for this little exodus. Any External Characters will be able to tell it is her whatever form she takes. In the past three years that she has been writing official fanfiction, she has boarded the Network literally thousands of times – more than enough for characters to get to know her.  
  
Writers aren't the only ones who ride the Illusory Network, as people may already have guessed. External Characters travel it as well, whether because they need to get from one place in Ambit to another, or just because they fancy seeing who else is on board today. The Authoress never quite knows whom she will meet when she gets on – if she meets anyone. Sometimes she will be actively searching for one particular character, and be blindsided by another. She has a MLP fiction that came as a result of that. She had been looking for some of the XME cast at the time, until a pair of small, colourful equines sat down either side of her on the seat and pestered her into writing a fic about them.   
  
The Illusory Network is more than simply a means of transportation, as you may by now have deduced. It's a metaphysical means of character development, piloted by Inspiration.   
  
Inspiration doesn't talk much, but sometimes it will touch you as you pass by the driver's seat, et voila. It's like a large neon sign suddenly appears above your head, flagging you up for External Characters to come sit by and talk to. However, Inspiration is as capricious as the Network itself. Sometimes it will refuse to come near you, and bare its teeth if you make the advance. Hormonal, angst-driven teenagers have absolutely nothing on it.  
  
The bus pulls up suddenly, and since The Authoress has been playing narrator, she is startled by its arrival. Standing up, she smoothes down her fictional clothes and mounts the stairs past the hissed-open doors. Only two writers from the cluster accompany her, the rest still intent on their brainteasers.   
  
The Authoress has a badge of clearance that she shows the driver. Then she steps onto the bus proper, and regards the other varied passengers.  
  
There are hardly any people or characters she recognises, today. Certainly, no authors she knows by name. The bus is another place that, like the depot itself, could not possibly fit all its insides into its outsides in the real world. Inside, it is roughly the size of a few soccer pitches, with maybe a warehouse or two tacked on for good measure. Even so, The Authoress is able to take it all in at a glance and ascertain who is on board. The bus is rather empty at present.  
  
This intrigues her a little. Usually she knows at least one or two characters, if not by name then by sight. Where she lives in the real world, The Authoress is not privy to a lot of TV shows or anime from America, where fanfiction is statistically most rife, but she can typically spot a book character. They like hanging around buses more than most, and she has had several deep conversations with them there, even though no fiction has ever come of it. Her most remarkable exchange was with Moon-Face of The Faraway Tree, whom she first met in Subreality in her childhood.   
  
Moon-Face is a peculiar character, in that he doesn't think of himself as External. He is from an age where fanfiction did not exist as it does now, and the books in which he featured do not get the same attention as 'classics' do in the fan-world of the here and now. Consequently, Moon-Face would rather talk about anything else *besides* fanfiction, which was a bit of a respite for The Authoress when they talked, since she was suffering from burnout at the time.   
  
The Authoress sits down and leans back in her seat as the bus starts off. She was has not been touched by Inspiration today, but since playing raconteur for this piece is taking up all of her attention, she is not unduly bothered by it. Instead, she simply settles back for the ride, listening to random characters talk in the background.   
  
That's another thing about the Illusory Network – it's an invaluable device that teaches the virtues of combining both a background and a foreground, so action can more easily take place 'off stage'. Inferred events are something The Authoress only recently learned the extensive benefits of, and she finds that she cannot sing their praises enough, since they have effectively cut her workload in half.  
  
"I'm not sure I'd ever do anything like *that*," one character is saying to a relatively new, innocent writer. "I mean, it's just so… cruel. I'm more likely to reason with them."  
  
"I… suppose," the writer replies, obviously unconvinced. "But it just sounded cool, y'know?"  
  
"Just because I *carry* the sword doesn't mean I have to use it all the time. There's a time and place for everything. Such is the lesson I've learned." The tone is vaguely familiar, and The Authoress looks up to see a man in a stylistic white robe, hair pulled back into a small ponytail. There is a vaguely curved sword in a scabbard at his waist.   
  
The writer is unconvinced, and what follows is a rather one-sided argument whereby the relative merits and downsides of inner peace and decapitation are bandied around like salt and pepper at a dinner table.   
  
Conversations are like that on the Illusory Network. Like the travellers, you never quite know what you're going to hear. Sometimes what seemed like a good idea in theory seems suddenly not so plausible when confronted with an External Character to put it to, and writers can learn from each other's mistakes.   
  
"Sounds like someone's a little too fond of fight scenes," says a new voice, and a previously unobserved body plops down next to The Authoress. "Hmm, I wonder who else I know is like that…"  
  
The Authoress turns, double-takes, and then sits up a little straighter. "Rogue?"   
  
Evo-Rogue doesn't ride the bus as much as she used to. Too many fanficcers disregarded her advice, and, being the kind of character she is, she got ticked off at *all* writers because of it.  
  
Rogue sweeps back her hair with one hand, nods, and folds her arms. It is a classic pose for her, replete with suggestive pout and eyes peeking out from heavily darkened lashes. Her hair is in its typical style – thick, glossy, and half-obscuring her face. She is the very picture of teenage gothic angst, and, as such, a complete and utter cliché of herself.   
  
Let's just take a timeout to talk about Evo-Rogue. Far more than any other Evolution character, she is completely different to her comic incarnation. She is, in fact, an antithesis.   
  
Comic-Rogue is a flirt – plain and simple. The Authoress has had a total of one conversation with Comic-Rogue, but that much was clear right from the beginning. Comic-Rogue likes to challenge the world and everything in it, and subsequently would rather torment writers into thinking for themselves than give them straight answers regarding her motivations and characterisation. She also has a fairly sunny outlook on life – an amazing thing when one considers all she's had to endure in the decades she has been put through by Marvel. Even forgetting her powers, scriptwriters have dumped on Comic-Rogue time and time again; so much so that the fact she is still sane is a miracle in and of itself.  
  
Evo-Rogue would like to be a flirt, but the scriptwriters *she* has decided to travel another route. Evo-Rogue was designed to appeal to fans, more than anything else. From the word go, she has been touted as the character with whom fans have most empathy – and The Authoress can see why. Evo-Rogue has all the attributes of a normal teenage girl, inclusive of raging hormones, relative shyness, the desire to fit in, and all the other anxieties than make up the years between twelve and twenty. All this is then accentuated by her skin-on-skin-energy-absorption and the drawbacks thereof. Her powers act as a microcosm of regular teenage woes, making her, arguably, the most human of all characters on the show.  
  
Think about it. In battle, Rogue has to rely either on her teammates, or herself and her own physical prowess, since her powers count for squat when she's not absorbing anyone. Fans were always meant to identify with things like this – after all, there aren't too many people out there with handy laser-beam eyes or super-speed. Put an ordinary fan into one of the combat situations Rogue is constantly faced with, and they would be begging for one of her nifty discuses within eight seconds.   
  
Her creators must have done something right, too, because Evo-Rogue claims a full third of the fandom.   
  
All this contributes to making the character what she is. And what she is happens to be possibly the most infuriating and frustrating character in the whole of XME fanfiction.   
  
Because of all the attention heaped upon her, coupled with the personality she was given at inception, Rogue has become a particularly sharp, insightful character to talk to. She is very discerning of the fan-world, and can see both its merits and its flaws. Plus, she isn't afraid to speak her mind about any of it. Having so much fan backing will do that to you.  
  
Typically in fanfiction, Rogue is portrayed in a set number of ways – even more so than characters like Jean or Scott. Rogue has, in her own words, transcended the boundaries she was supposed to inhabit – often in more ways than one. The Authoress has run across more than one fic in which Rogue obtains wonderful, godlike powers - whether by absorbing a version of Carol Danvers or by simple evolution. Many fanfic writers seem to think that Rogue is just plain cool, and that justifies advancing her abilities further. It's the 'special offer' style of writing; i.e. if two for one is good, then six for three must be damn fantastic.   
  
Which rather ticks Rogue off, alongside everything else. You see, she may have transcended her old, canon boundaries; but that's only to slip into a new, fanon set. A horizontal progression, if you will.  
  
The Authoress considers Rogue for a second, before saying, "If you don't mind me asking, why on Earth are you talking to me? I'm not writing anything involving you at the moment, and we already discussed the mall scene."  
  
Rogue nods, but doesn't offer an answer. Yet another infuriating thing about her. Just like her comic counterpart, thanks to all the interest she has received, Evo-Rogue has developed a habit of never giving authors a straight answer. She would much rather make you work to find an answer on your own – which helps immensely when you're writing at length on one facet of her personality. Understanding is the key to good writing, and this is something Rogue holds in high regard.   
  
Not that The Authoress would ever point out this similarity with Comic-Rogue. The Evolution characters tend not to associate with their comic book foils. Jean once described it as talking with your own grandparents, but doing so after hopping in a time machine and going back to when they were young enough to be considered 'whippersnappers'.   
  
Likewise, the comic characters don't really like talking to the Evolution cast. Young versions of themselves that are so much more powerful and have so much more control than they do (it took years before Shadowcat could phase a person along with herself through solid objects, and Jean Grey would never even have considered lifting a police car filled with people off the floor at age eighteen)… well, it tends to unnerve them. And when someone like Jean Grey is unnerved, you know to take a step back.   
  
"Reckon she'll take any notice?" Rogue jerks a thumb over her shoulder, startling The Authoress out of her narrative.   
  
"Who?" The Authoress says intelligently, openly inviting the world to question her place on the Network.   
  
Rogue merely rolls her eyes and jerks again, then stares contemplatively at the ceiling. The Authoress is not sure whether this means she is already bored of the conversation, or waiting for an answer.  
  
"Well?"  
  
Option b, then.  
  
"I don't know. I don't know anyone here well enough to say whether they'll listen or not."  
  
"That's the world's problem," Rogue says soberly – forcing The Authoress to contemplate her own place in a fandom where such a dour creature could be so popular and revered. "Listening. Not enough people do it – or else they pretend to, when really they're just hearing, which is something quite different. Insulting, really." She turns, fixing The Authoress with a beady eye. "Why are you here? To listen, or to hear?"  
  
The Authoress is not sure how to respond. She is certain that, whatever she says, Rogue will somehow be able to twist it to mean something else, thereby tying her up in verbal knots that accomplish nothing but raise Tynolol's profits a smidge more. "Uh…"  
  
"Don't bother. I already know. But tell me, why *are* you here like this?"  
  
"You mean with a readership?" The Authoress sounds hopeful, despite herself.  
  
"I mean with piggybackers," Rogue replies dismissively. Strange how a person so disinterested in her own devotees could have so many.   
  
The Authoress is abruptly reminded of comedians who stand up on stage, night after night, ridiculing the very people who have paid money to come see them talk into a microphone. Not that she has anything against stand-up – far from it – but she is constantly amazed at how people revere those who incessantly and publicly insult them. Is it some sort of mass communal masochism?   
  
"Meta-fiction," The Authoress says. "I'm doing the investigative thing."  
  
"With us?" Rogue raises an eyebrow. Somehow it manages to be sardonic, unconcerned, irritated *and* interested, all at the same time.  
  
"Well, obviously."  
  
"How nice for you."  
  
The Authoress blinks. "Somehow I was expecting more of a reaction than that. Although perhaps I shouldn't have."  
  
Rogue winks, faint traces of a smile on her lips. "You're learning. Glad to see all that time spent in my company's paid off. And in answer to your question, I'm here because I want to be. Just like you."  
  
The Authoress can't argue with that. To do so would call into question too many facets of the Illusory Network, and maybe get her thrown off it altogether. So instead she looks around again, and finds herself drawn back to that bickering new writer.   
  
"Was I like that?"  
  
"Like what?"   
  
"That. You were the first Evo character I ever wrote. Was I as frustrating?"  
  
Rogue seems to mull this over, and after a moment she says simply, "That all depends on your interpretation of frustration. And your threshold for it. There's others more qualified to talk to you about that, if you really wanna know. Is it a burning question?"  
  
"Not really. But you weren't offering anything else to talk about."  
  
"You said it yourself – we've already talked about my upcoming scene, and you're not writing me at the moment." Rogue peers at the new writer, who has risen and is stepping off the bus before her stop. Rogue shakes her head, licks a gloved finger, and makes a vertical line motion in the air. "Another one down. Don't reckon she'll be back."  
  
The Authoress watches her go. "So why exactly did you come to talk to me if we've got nothing to talk about?"  
  
Rogue shrugs. "It seemed fitting I put in an appearance. Besides, I have a message for you."  
  
That makes The Authoress sit up straighter still. "A message? For me?" The idea of Rogue willingly playing courier is positively ridiculous. "Who from?"  
  
"Yes, yes, and wouldn't you like to know?" Rogue wags a finger. Then she gets up and starts walking away. "But you'll find the answer at the Game."  
  
The Authoress has a suspicion of who has sent her this message. Or rather, she has a suspicion of on whose behalf the message has been sent. Either way, she nods. She is familiar enough with Rogue to know that the character won't say any more than she has to – or wants to. If she has consented to passing along this message, then odds are she has some personal stake in it.   
  
Then again, maybe she doesn't. That's one of the infuriating things about Rogue. As she is portrayed so many ways in fanfiction, she had absorbed so many facets as to be completely unreadable. Gothic recluse, grinning prankster, loving sibling, hate-filled daughter, resentful roommate, kick-ass vigilante, save-me romance heroine, wishy-washy love interest – just some of the ways in which her numerous fans see and depict her. That's why, to write her properly, you really need to speak to her in person. And that's why Rogue so rarely talks to writers anymore, too.   
  
Vicious circle? Maybe. Maybe not. That's just Rogue for you.   
  
Speaking of which…  
  
"Hey, don't you have any cutting words of advice for me? A last parting shot?" Rogue has homed these down to a fine art, and The Authoress doesn't feel like the conversation is over unless one is voiced.  
  
Rogue pauses, turns, and says, "Sure. Loneliness breeds in large groups of people."  
  
The Authoress knows this expression already. It's actually the same saying as adorns a postcard blue-tacked to her bedroom door. She also knows that Rogue knows that she knows this, and will know that she knows this, too. And… uh…  
  
"You just couldn't help yourself, could you?"  
  
Rogue smiles mischievously, revealing yet another facet of her character. "Hey, it's a gift." Then she hops off the bus and leaves The Authoress unsure whether to fume or puzzle over the idiom some more.   
  
The only problem with being a fictional character in a story is that sometimes other characters write your part for you. 


	4. Negligence Issues

=========  
  
Chapter Four: Negligence Issues  
  
=========  
  
By the time she gets of the bus, The Authoress has tied herself in so many verbal and mental knots that she is half-expecting someone to come up and offer help untying her arms from around her head. They don't, obviously, and so she steps down by herself, arms in their rightful place by her sides.   
  
The Ambit is not an especially breathtaking place to look at – that's Subreality's function. Subreality is a place of places, and the Ambit is a place of concepts. If The Authoress were feeling pretentious, she would say it is kind of like a writer's Mecca.   
  
Well, parts of it are, anyway. Likewise, parts of it are just dross.   
  
The Authoress has not explored all of the Ambit. She doubts she could even if she tried. The Ambit is a constantly growing, constantly fluctuating point in Time and Space that tends not to follow a lot of the rules. It thinks some of the rules are silly, and that others are just for mortals. It is a living entity all of its own, like a planet but… not.   
  
It's difficult to explain, other than to say it's everything you'd expect, yet nothing like you'd ever dream of. The best she can describe it as is an ever-shifting mass of tangible notions and abstracts, and hope that makes sense to the readers. The people who visit it are more like tics – occasionally irritating, but essentially inconsequential.   
  
It is a humbling thing to be described as a blood-sucking little insect.   
  
But back to the present. Rogue said to go to the Game, so the Game is where The Authoress figures she should go. She trips off merrily, pausing only long enough to point out that the Game has little to do with baseball, football, or any other televised sport.   
  
Most of the time, at any rate.  
  
Truth be told, she is actually rather relieved – and not a little grateful – to now have somewhere to go, rather than just wandering around here without any real purpose. She was feeling a little lost, out on the bus with no specific destination in mind and no real purpose to her visit. She had been a little worried she was meandering, or else turning into one of those hideous documentaries. It's much easier to develop some sort of proper strategy when you have a first base to run to. Exploring for exploring's sake is all very well, but it's difficult to set out a criterion of action in a place like this without some kind of deeper motivation.   
  
Not that she'd ever tell Rogue that. Rogue's ego doesn't need the boost, and The Authoress' doesn't need the mashing it would undoubtedly receive when Rogue rebuffed the praise.  
  
The Game is a facet of the Ambit that The Authoress does not visit very often. Even so, she knows where it is. Vaguely. Well, she stumbled across it once, but it can't possibly be that difficult to find it again. It's the sort of thing that leaps out at you without warning, stationary or not, and she has to admit that she hasn't been back again since then. But it can't be that difficult, she's sure.   
  
The Authoress would like to point out that she is fully aware of the contradiction in the previous paragraph, considering what she has already said about the Ambit. The incongruity has been noted, and her toes have curled. There's no need to point it out again.  
  
She wanders away from the bus stop.   
  
She is not used to this. Usually in the Ambit, you don't really think where you're going; you just seem to get there. It's not teleportation or anything, like that, though. It's more like when you drive a long stretch of road, then startle yourself when you realise you have no idea how the hell you got where you are. The route is a blur you knew you took, but details are hazy and indistinct. Concentrating on the journey itself is a strange experience, and because of her general mentality, it's not long before The Authoress finds herself doubting her sense of direction after all.  
  
"Bugger," she says to nobody in particular – mainly because nobody in particular is there to hear her say it.   
  
However…  
  
"Lost?" says a voice, which nearly causes The Authoress to empty her metaphysical bowels in surprise.  
  
"Dwa - ?"  
  
A sallow man is standing behind her. He is immediately recognisable as an External Character. His energy signature says as much, and when he smiles at The Authoress she gets the distinct feeling that he really, truly was not there a second ago. There is something hidden in that smile – a sort of predatory suggestion, if that makes sense.   
  
In Subreality, the Ambit, and all places concerned with the fictional, External Characters are always recognisable by their energy signature. It's a sort of feeling you get just looking at them. By the same token, External Characters can always tell who and what is an Internal Character. Added to that, they can also tell to whom the Internal Character belongs, since all writers and their Internal Characters share energy signatures. The only woolly area is when shared Internal Characters come into the equation. Generally, they share the energy signature of whomsoever originally created them, but now and then there are characters who have gained enough independence of their creators as to be caught somewhere between Internal and External. That's when you get Wild Cards, which is an entirely different kettle of fish, and one we won't go into right now.  
  
But anyway, back to the sallow man. He is looking expectantly at The Authoress, like she ought to know who he is. She peers, blinks, and then recognises him. "Mastermind."  
  
"At your service."  
  
The Authoress has never written Mastermind before. As in, ever. He has just never featured in any of her fics, and so it is more than a little disconcerting to find him standing here like he and she are best buds. Having random characters wander into your fiction unannounced is… just plain weird.  
  
Mastermind cocks his head and gives a very uncharacteristic wink. "I was tired of being left out of things and I was in the area. So sue me." Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, reminding The Authoress of detective movies, with their long trench coats and hidden guns. "Do you have any idea how much XME fanfiction is out there?"  
  
The question surprises her. She was expecting him to say… well, she's not certain what she expected him to say, but that wasn't it. "Uh, quite a bit?"   
  
The Authoress is checking her Internal Characters, sifting through their ranks to see if she has anyone capable of holding their own in a fight with someone like Mastermind. In a real pinch, she could create a new one, but odds are it would not last long. Internal Characters need personalities, characteristics, and their own individuality if they are to survive in any sort of fiction. Anything less and they simply fall down as a Mary-Sue or an incompetent. As such, they also need time spent on them to gain these things – and if it came to any sort of skirmish, time is something The Authoress would not be in abundance of.   
  
And yet, Mastermind has not made any move to fight her. And he seems to be on his own, without any big, burly backup…  
  
"Exactly," he goes on regardless. "There are thousands of fictions out there – perhaps millions. It's entirely possible. But do I get a look-in as a focus-character?" He makes a raspberry noise, which *really* throws The Authoress. As far as she knew, Mastermind is a gothic type of character, not given to jokes and big on the whole mysterious inscrutability bit.   
  
"Surely there are *some* fictions out there with you in them," she tries, hesitantly. Well, how would *you* sound in a situation like this?  
  
"Oh yes, a few. I'm knocked out in most of them, and I stay in the background for the rest." He has not stopped smiling yet, which unnerves The Authoress slightly. "So when I heard someone had taken the time to come here virtually plotless, I decided to pop along and remind the fandom I'm still here. So go on, then. Describe me."  
  
"Uh, you mean physically?" Ouch. All she has so far is 'sallow'. And what bearing exactly did the phrase 'I heard' have on that statement. Heard from whom? "Or do you mean from the fanfiction perspective?"  
  
"I haven't got one of those," he says in a tone that indicates his true meaning is 'we already covered this'. "Surprise me."  
  
"Uh…okay…"  
  
"You say monkey-face and that monster under your bed might make a reappearance."  
  
"Eep." The Authoress swallows and replies with what she hopes is a mollifying question. "Do you resent people for the monkey comments?"  
  
"Not people, per se, but my designer comes pretty close. If I'd had a face like one of the other adults – even that Logan fellah – I'll bet there'd be more fanfiction out there for me. Do you realise how difficult it is with a face like this?" He points, and The Authoress shakes her head. "I'm stereotyped from square one. XME is a Saturday morning cartoon, with a target demograph to match. With that sort of audience, there's no way they'd let me play a hero. Even a repentant bad guy is stretching it."  
  
"That's not true. Look at the Morlocks."  
  
"Yes, look at them." His smile widens. The Authoress is beginning to think that his smile is inverse to everybody else's. If he were scowling, or looking apathetic, she would probably not feel so intimidated as she does. Plus there's the whole never-written-him-before element that is making her anxious.   
  
Let's get something straight for a second. External Characters all get put through the wringer by fans. It is, in The Authoress' experience, the staunchest who insist on torturing their favourite characters the most – which might account for why there are so many fics out there where Kurt, or Rogue, or even Pietro are treated abysmally and left with psychological scarring by the end.   
  
Yet, the characters themselves put up with this. A writer can torment, humiliate, maul – even kill a character in the name of fanfic. It's all good in the end; but whatever happens, they must stay true to the *nature* of the character they're writing. A writer who mangles a character by insulting them, or writing them *out* of character is technically insulting what that character stands for – its principle.   
  
This sort of thing should be avoided at all costs.   
  
Characters can be depicted evilly, heroically, madly, playfully - even pusillanimously, if you can spell it right – but above all things they must be represented *truthfully*. To do anything else is to prove your own ineptitude as a writer. And besides which, it ticks off the characters themselves. Which is why Rogue tends not to talk to many people these days – writers messed around with her core personality so much that nobody is really sure what it is anymore. Not even her, in The Authoress' humble opinion.   
  
So The Authoress is not very keen on insulting Mastermind by writing him badly. Aside from him being able to attack her – no physical harm would come of it, but it's her own core personality that's at stake, here – she is aware that just because she has never written him before does not mean that she never will. There is every chance that sometime in the future she will find herself scribing him into a fic, and so it would probably be best for her if she doesn't stuff up his characterisation this time around. Call it a test flight of ficcery.  
  
In which case, back to the test flight.  
  
"Excuse me? What's wrong with the Morlocks? I would've thought they'd vindicate your argument," she says, not quite seeing where this is going.  
  
"If you were to go back and look at the original comics – or even that short-lived XME one – you'd see that the Morlocks were originally a lot more mutated than they are in the show. A lot more *physically* mutated. Even Callisto got an overhaul. They were beautified – some of them even cut out because their looks and powers weren't suitable for a kids' show. But me," he snorts derisively, "I get ugly. True, Comic-Mastermind won't win any beauty contests, but at least he doesn't look like a primate."  
  
This is obviously something that rattles Mastermind quite a lot. The Authoress feels sorry for him despite herself. She has always had a penchant for underdogs and underused characters. "So you have to rely on fanfiction because the show gave you a raw deal," she surmises.  
  
"Precisely. Fanfiction is where all underdeveloped characters go to get a little consideration. But still, I get diddly-squat. And all because of this face, and the fact that I seemed to magically disappear in the show after my usefulness was finished." He sighs, and it seems to come from his boots. "It's difficult being a villain. Once in a while you find a script or two that doesn't make you out to be some giant cliché, but most of the time its all garbage. 'I am evil, because I am, and I'm just going to stand here telling you all how evil I am and how brilliant my Master Plan is instead of actually implementing it'. It's frustrating. But when you don't even get offered *that*… I wasn't even a true villain – I was just pigeonholed that way. I owed Magneto and repaid my debt by doing him a favour. Fans are willing to give characters like Gambit and Piotr a chance, even though their marks on the villainous deed chart dwarf mine. But me? Pah."  
  
"Isn't it part of being evil, explaining your plans to the hero?" The Authoress blinks, and had she been an anime character she would have sweatdropped. "Whoops. Sorry." She rubs the back of her head self-consciously, as she's wont to do when caught out. "Uh…"  
  
Mastermind shakes his head. "All the authors in the world and *you're* the one I have to talk to in order to get a little attention?"  
  
She can't think of a response to that, so she gives none. Instead, she asks, "Do you feel better now?"  
  
"This is a polite way of telling me to shut up, isn't it?"  
  
"Uh, actually, no. I was just wondering if - "  
  
"Well that's fine by me. I had an errand to run anyway, but the opportunity of actually getting a bit of fic time was too good to turn a blind eye to." He grins. It's more than a little disturbing - in a completely non-ape-like way, of course.  
  
The Authoress resists the urge to sigh, since there's been entirely too much sighing already in this fanfic. Instead, she says her goodbyes to Mastermind, edges away, and resumes mooching along, wondering how the heck she's supposed to find the Game with nobody to ask for directions.   
  
Which is about the time the rope loops about her middle, effectively pinning her arms to her sides and pulling her down to the floor with a bump. She yelps, and then shuts up quickly when Mastermind reappears, holding the other end of the rope and looking entirely serious.   
  
The Authoress groans. "Let me guess; your errand?"  
  
"I am evil because I am," he replies, without even the glimmer of a smile. "Plus, I have to work for a living, just like everybody else." 


	5. Villainous Villainy

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Chapter Five: Villainous Villainy

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The Authoress can understand the need for roped wrists and a maybe the blindfold, but the gag is really pushing it. Considering how much Mastermind was gabbing to her, and the fact that she has a narrative voice on tap, you'd think this would strike him as uncalled for. Plus, the taste is just plain nasty, and she doesn't want to hazard a guess at what he gagged her _with_. The words 'old sweat sock' are thrumming in her head.

"We're here," he says after a great deal of walking, punctuated by stumbling, tripping, falling, and the odd bout of staggering.

The Authoress would reply, but... well, you know the sitch. Aside from the gag, she's greatly worried about her core personality right now. That's the main reason she's allowed herself to be manhandled in such an unbecoming way. She's not quick on the draw – in any interpretation – and she has more than a sneaking suspicion that in the time it would take her to formulate a coherent escape plan and act on it, any damage to her person would already have been done.

Her Internal Characters are equally concerned about her, as several of them have made plain during the trip hence. While she can't technically die in the fictional realm, their well-being depends on her state of mind as much as her continued existence, which is in turn directly linked to her core personality. It's a self-preservation thing as much as care for their creator – in some cases more the former than the latter.

There is a short period of whooshing noises, followed by what sounds like a metal door slamming. The Authoress' stomach does a curious flip-flop before she is finally allowed to stop. She's pretty sure she knows where she is. Reluctant or not, Mastermind is still an XME villain, and there's one place all villains tend to go in the Ambit.

It's called the Lair, and it's as despicable as it sounds. From the outside it is a boring office building – because in most forms of fiction, office buildings are the most mundane setting you can get. Sometimes deviations from this occur – an office building on a beach or in the Arctic would stick out like a sore thumb – but for the most part fictional monotony is epitomised by the nondescript office building. Which makes it perfect cover for an evil villains' hideaway.

Attendance at the Lair is not obligatory. What would be the point? Villains, by definition, would not want to conform to anything remotely resembling rules. Still, they all seem to gravitate here, no matter how tenuous their link to villainy is. There are some characters in the Lair who barely even qualify as real villains, and others who spend literally all day, every day brooding villainously and concocting evil schemes against their respective heroic adversaries. Once a week the older, more experienced contingent hold seminars on The Art of Cackling, and How To Properly Finance World Takeover Attempts, amongst other things. The Authoress, while channelling an iniquitous Internal Character, once attended a lecture by Mojo Jojo on the proper use of giant lasers.

The Lair is a sort of microcosm of the various facets of villainy. Think of a bad-guy setting, and odds are the Lair has one stashed somewhere. And if not, it's only a few seconds away, thanks to the ever-evolving nature of the Ambit. The Lair oozes wickedness, and evildoers are generally attracted to evil places. It's like wasps to honey – leave it around for long enough and soon you'll have a whole buzzing, stinging swarm on your hands.

The only thing The Authoress has not figured out is whom exactly Mastermind has brought her here to see, so she is exceedingly grateful when he finally removes the gag and blindfold.

Not so much so when she sees who is sitting in front of her.

"Oh, bloody hell! Do you have any idea how incredibly cliché it is to have you featured at this point in the story?"

Magneto doesn't seem at all bothered by her ranting. He just sits and sips his dry white elegantly, and in such a way as clandestine teenagers raiding their parents' wine racks will emulate but never truly master. Carelessly, he swills what's left around in the tall glass, from which sprouts a small tropical umbrella. Then he speaks.

"You really should be more careful about whom you talk to. Anyone on the street could be a dangerous criminal. The world's not a very safe place to be, these days."

There is a great irony to his words, but The Authoress chooses not to comment. She is still fuming at the outright cliché of him being behind all this.

"Is it so very formulaic for me to be the brains of the outfit?" he asks nonchalantly, and in that indifferently hazardous voice that only true villains can master.

"Very brainy plan there, by the way. Send out your goon and have him tie me up with a sock in my mouth? Suave, Mags, real suave. How long did it take you to think up? A whole five minutes?" This is a habit The Authoress has picked up recently – shortening Magneto's name to Mags. She knows she shouldn't really be so blatant; saying it to his face like this, but honestly, the whole cliché things really has her ticked. She is the kind of writer who goes out of her way to avoid the risk of writing clichés, and feels uncomfortable even reading something that includes them, so it infuriates her that by waltzing into this fic unannounced, he has cornered her into writing exactly what she despises. Never mind if he's the villain, she's The Authoress, and she's irate.

And he _is _the villain, make no mistake about that.

Magneto is the true baddie of XME. Long before Apocalypse was even broached by scriptwriters and producers, good old Erik Lenscherr was in there. Even his character design emphasised it – there are far more villains in the world who wear swirly cloaks than there are heroes. Plus, blood red and purple? _So _not a heroic colour scheme.

At first, he was peddled as an everyday, incurable Saturday morning cartoon scoundrel. All he had to do was stand threateningly in the background and viewers automatically knew which role he was there to fulfil. Even something so simple as playing with paperclips became threatening with Magneto at the helm, and he stirred the 'boo, hiss' reaction from his audience like a pro, with absolute minimum effort.

Then, slowly, the scriptwriters started giving him more depth. They introduced his children, made him a kind of family man – albeit rather a fucked-up one. They gave him a purpose beyond pure competition with Xavier, or evil for evil's sake. Take away some of the criminal activity, and he really does care about Mutantkind. On a fundamental level, even. He gained motivation, and the repercussions of his past actions – even the off screen deeds – came back to haunt him in new and interesting ways. In short, he developed as a character. And this is both what makes him the definitive villain, and a sort of anti-hero you can imagine yourself truly empathising with.

Think about it. Magneto's philosophy isn't really that different from Xavier's. They agree that humanity would react badly to Mutantkind, seeing it as a threat and a menace – and are proved right after the second season finale. In the comics, the two of them were friends for a long, long time before their stances on Mutantkind ultimately drove them apart, and this sort of prior rapport has been alluded to in XME, too. It is not Magneto's philosophy that causes conflict with Xavier; it is the course of action that stems from it.

Personally, The Authoress is of the opinion that what makes Magneto a perfect villain is that he _is_ so very similar to Xavier. A few steps the other way, and Charlie boy could have been the one in the swirly cape. Likewise, Erik could have had the swanky mansion and teenaged, goody-goody superteam at his disposal. The kind of dichotomy and knife-edge arrangement between these two is what makes the difference between a noble, believable villain, and another saddo with the top button of his coat done up by his neck to make it a cape.

But what makes Magneto truly disturbing is that, in real life, if mutants really did exist on the scale that they do in XME – and all other X-Men incarnations for that matter – the majority of public support would probably be with him. Seriously.

People are frightened at the thought of something new and potentially dangerous – and rightly so, in some cases. It's been that way for centuries. Magneto's beliefs would be the kind of knee-jerk reaction mankind has been exhibiting for the past thousand years or so. His is a survivalist philosophy, and even human beings have a basic survival instinct. It may not be an easy option, but it's certainly one that would appeal to the panicky masses, and The Authoress would challenge any ordinary Joe to stand up and say they'd really put their own lives on the line, time and time again, for people whose own knee-jerk reaction is to preserve themselves – often by any means necessary. She is honest enough to say that, in that kind of situation, she could truthfully imagine herself choosing a way that might ensure her own survival.

Which isn't to say that she likes Magneto as a character. Not at all. She can just understand what makes him an effective villain.

It's the uncertainty. He's good at his job, just like a plumber is good at fixing a burst water main, or an electrician is good at rewiring a house. As a character, Magneto's enigmatic to the point of being sphinx-like.

"I don't like you," she pouts.

"This is supposed to surprise me?"

Not really, but she felt like saying it. If she were untied she would fold her arms, but she isn't, so she settles for tilting her chin and hoping she looks imposing and not like she has a runny nose.

"Uh..."

She'd forgotten about Mastermind, but he's still here. Looking a little contrite, she's pleased to say.

"Should I untie her?"

"Yes!"

"No," Magneto replies, shaking his head. "She'll try something."

"What, exactly, am I going to try? I don't even know what part of the _building_ we're in."

He waves his hand as if dismissing her words.

The Authoress takes a deep breath and counts to ten. "So," she says slowly, "why am I here?"

"How would you take it if I said 'to give a perspective on villainy'?"

"How do you think?"

Magneto smiles in a... somewhat seductive manner. It's the only word the Authoress can think of to properly describe it, and it's more than a little disturbing.

"So if I told you I just wanted to force you into writing about me, how well would that go down?"

She thinks about this. Unfortunately, by ranting about clichés and whatnot, she may have done exactly what Magneto wanted. Which is a cliché all of its own. Walking into his trap? Got her right where he wants her? How many times have _those _lines been used? She scowls and blows hair from her eyes.

Magneto nods. "I thought so."

"Yeah, well... nuts to you."

He rolls his eyes. "You're not the most mature of writers, are you?"

"I laugh at fart jokes. What does that tell you? No – wait! Don't answer that."

Another depreciating look. She could get very tired of those. She turns to Mastermind and asks, "When did the ruling change?"

He blinks vacantly at her. "Excuse me?"

"The ruling. The rules."

"Uhh..."

"I'm the Authoress. You're the fictional characters. I'm supposed to outrank you."

Magneto snorts, just a little. Enough to get her attention. "My dear," he says in that way that makes you feel about two inches tall. You know the way – slightly nasal, emphasis on the first vowel – _my deeeear_. "Considering you're so proud of your pass onto the Illusory Network, you don't have much idea how things work in the Ambit, do you?"

That's a very dangerous question. She's semi-glad it's rhetorical, even if it _would_ have been nice to come out with a witty quip. That would have knocked him down to size. It's not big or clever for a writer to scribe something openly bashing characters by reducing their intellect, but sometimes it's nice to have other _characters_ take them down a peg or two. Vindicating.

Magneto gets up. His cape does that floaty thing, and not for the first time the Authoress marvels that fictional capes never get tangled up, or caught in doorways, or wrapped around ankles while running, or sucked into jet engines, or... you get the idea. Only in the fictional world. The Lair has a facet whereby all capes float threateningly, even when there's no breeze. Mojo Jojo was so impressed he stole the idea and had it instigated on him 24/7. It cheapened it a little for all the other villains, but generally they're too busy being villainous to take him to task.

"I believe our business is concluded," Magneto says, leaving his drink where it is. He picks up his helmet and carries it under his arm. "Good day, my dear."

"Uhh..."

"What is it, Mastermind?"

"What should I do with her?"

"Just dispose of her somewhere."

"No," the Authoress is hasty to put in. "Bad plan. Verrrry bad. Me no likey."

Magneto stops in the doorway, turns, and smiles that sensual smile again. "I would think," he says in a voice to match, "that _that_ was the point."

The Authoress has a really good retort for that. She really does. And she'd voice it. Really she would. Except that at that moment, that _precise _moment, everything around her grinds to a gut-crunching, eyeball-rolling, head-spinning, tongue-furring... yeah. It all stops. As in, stops moving. All of it. Magneto freezes in the doorway, Mastermind is immobilized next to her, and she has that popped-soap-bubble sensation you get when you blow up a balloon too fast and all the blood rushes to your head. The cape is no longer fluttering. A dust mote hangs motionless in front of her face.

The Authoress looks around. She takes a deep, calming breath, aaaand... "What the _fuck _is going on around here?"

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End file.
